


Zavarka and Americano

by MargoBlack, Rebness



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romantic Comedy, screwball comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25862089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargoBlack/pseuds/MargoBlack, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness
Summary: lllya had lofty dreams of seeking a new life in America. But a mundane existance as a gallery security guard is not what he imagined, so of course he's interested in Napoleon, the mysterious new barista at the coffee shop across the way.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 59
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Zavarka and Americano](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27609266) by [Giossel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giossel/pseuds/Giossel)



'Do not even think about it.'

The man startled and turned in surprise. 'I don't--' 

'Keep your hands where I can see them.' Illya hovered a hand over his hip, eyes narrowed. 'No flash photography of paintings!' Illya patted the taser on his belt. 'I will not tell you again.'

'Dude, chill out. I'm taking a picture not urinating over---' The teen faltered at Illya's glower. 'I-- you know what. I'm just going to go… over there. Now. Bye!' He darted away through the gallery, shooting nervous glances over his shoulder as the distance grew.

There. Good. That was about the seventh person Illya had warned off in only the last hour. What possessed a normal person to want to have a selfie with a landscape? Posing like a child with a fridge quality rendering. It wasn't even a _good_ painting. Illya would rather have a photograph of the art gallery exit door.

He dropped down into the uncomfortable plastic chair. Another day had bled into the next. Idiots would come in and gawk and draw in funny little notepads and chew gum and interrogate him on bathroom locations. Days, weeks, months -- and how soon before they became years? A nondescript guard at a museum, sullenly pointing the way to the cloakroom and snarling at people who took pictures of the paintings with their flash enabled. 

America had been the dream. He would travel to this country, this upstart free land of opportunity, and he would be more than the angry teacher he had been in Ukraine; the admin assistant fired for slinging a sandwich at his manager’s head in Germany when ordered to remove the tomatoes; he would be Illya, the clever and confident Russian émigré who would take on the world. Maybe he would be a cop; maybe he would be a CEO. He didn’t believe America’s streets were paved with gold, but surely it would be better than cheese. 

Except in America, they wanted things like _qualifications_ and _GPAs_ if one were to avoid sandwich runs for annoying managers, and so Illya found work at the local museum, guarding other people's ugly treasures with a flashlight and an itchy polyester uniform. He scowled. What he would give for a little action, a little adventure.

His fingers twitched. He glanced down at the taser at his belt, unused, tempting, and frowned. 

'Maladaptive daydreaming again, Illya?' asked Gaby, pulling him from his thoughts. She leaned against the wall, shooting him a wry smile. 'Just so you know, you are way too tall to yippay-ki-yay through these vents.'

'Don't you have acne riddled teenagers to lead around all this,' he sneered, ‘ _legitimate art_?’ 

'You’ll never let that argument go, will you?’ she said pleasantly, punching him in the shoulder. ‘It's my break, thank God!' She shot him a wink. 'And just because it's not to your taste it doesn't mean you can write off the entire lot. Don’t be such a plebian. Now stop scowling, you are scaring those nuns.'

‘An unmade bed? A dirty bed with -- with condoms? That video of girl climbing around the room? You think this is art?’ He laughed angrily. ‘Kandinsky, Serov, Levitan! _That_ is art. Pah, even Rembrandt who can’t turn on light, that’s art! This?' He gestured to the wheelbarrow full of camembert and lacrosse sticks: 'This is an abhorrent!'

'Actually, _Cheese on Wheels_ is part of a group of structural works centered around _l’appel du vide_ and our own uncertainty of our place within that bleakness.’ Gaby tapped at her lip, considering, and eyed a lacrosse stick critically. 'It could be said that the aura of the figurative line-space matrix threatens to penetrate the exploration of montage elements.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Hell if I know, I just heard a top-knot saying it earlier while rubbing cedar scent into his beard. Anyway, listen, _Nico's Bistro_ is open again!'

'The cafe across the street?'

'Yes! They do the most amazing brownies. I saw the shutters were up this morning and someone was moving around in there. Your break is in five, isn't it?'

'It is but I have podcast planned. Very interesting series on--'

'Urgh! Thank you! And I'll have a Mocha, too, thanks.'

'I did not agree. Why do I have order now? Use vending machine.' 

'Oh, hey!' Ron, another security guard called approaching. 'Is Illya on a coffee run! Fantastic, can you get me a caramel frappuccino? Hey, Petra, Kristine! Illya is going on a coffee run. What do you guys want?'

Gaby smiled widely at Illyas' glower. 'How about we get this down on paper for you? Hmm.'

‘I maybe get tomato sandwich,’ he muttered. 

  
  
*

_Nico's Bistro_ was just one of the many small, shabby chic looking monstrosities that covered the area but had the added attraction of being directly opposite the Thomas Lowry Art Gallery. It had been closed for the entire six months that Illya had worked there. No doubt now that it was open again, it would soon be awash with people ironically wearing suspenders while Tik Toking their way through gulps of overrated, sugary beverages while complaining loudly about gentrification. For Illya, the plus point was that it was the only coffeeshop in the area where the owner hadn't left an _amusing_ chalkboard sign outside for people to Instagram and revolve their personalities around. 

He pushed open the door with a sigh at feeling it give, and slowly made his way into the cafe.

At the counter stood a dark haired, well-built man with his back to Illya. He appeared to be holding blueprints and studiously inspecting them. Of course. _Great_. Things could never stay small and decent. Another chain to add to the deluge of overpriced sludge that lined the square.

Illya took his place at the counter, reading over the board of overly fancy cursive writing and ridiculous figures. He cleared his throat and waited.

And waited.

'Service!'

'Oh!' The man jumped in shock. As he turned he hastily folded and shoved the documents unceremoniously under the counter. 'Sorry about that!' he beamed as he ducked back up. 'I didn't hear you come in!'

Illya stared at him, shocked into silence. 

The man was _beautiful_. Much more so than any of the laughable art that paraded the galley he had just left. His eyes travelled the man's face finding a new wonder on each stop. High angular cheekbones, strong masculine jaw, arresting blue eyes and full pink lips. The man had the naive but confident beauty of a Mavosky portrait.

Illya gulped. 

The beautiful man gave him a tolerant smile, waiting. 

'I -- service. Please,' Illya choked out. He was on a mission. He had not come to gawk at baristas in too-tight shirts. 

'Of course! I'm _so_ sorry, just give me a second to recalibrate. We are just in the middle of the lunch time rush.' 

Illya slowly glanced around the empty shop, and then back to the man behind the counter. 'Yes. That is okay. I can wait.' He coughed delicately into his hand. 'So. You are Nico?' 

'Oh, no, no,’ said the man, shaking his head emphatically. ‘I'm just a friend helping things get sorted for him. Just while he is away.'

'Ah.' Illya removed the paper slip from his jean pocket and placed it on the sticky counter. 'How long does he plan to be gone?'

'Uh, 10 - 15 yea...months! Months, yeah, that’s it. He asked me to watch the shop for him. Get it up and running again.' The man smiled, fastening an apron around himself and robbing Illya of any further opportunity to admire his physics-defying buttoned shirt.

'I see,' Illya said, now held hostage by banal small talk. 'You must be very good friend to do so. He must find you very trustworthy.'

'Eh. I probably wouldn't go _that_ far. But we were -- _are_ very close.'

Of course. Such beauty was bound to have been claimed already. There was a heaviness in Illya’s chest, and recognising the crest and swell of disappointment, he allowed it to wash over him in penance. 'Well. I am sure you will do a very good job,' he muttered. 'Even if coffee overpriced and smell inside is strange and stale like old wet book.' He gestured lazily to the art gallery through the window. ‘It’s good company for my colleagues.’ 

The man blinked rapidly, before giving a small smirk. ‘It’s always a pleasure to meet the locals.’ He considered. ‘Um. Well, usually. Napoleon Solo,' he said, holding out a hand to Illya.

'No.' Illya grabbed his hand and gave it a curt pump up and down before quickly dropping it before he could start internally waxing lyrical about soft palms. 'What is your real name?'

Napoleon blinked again. ‘Um. That is my real name.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘I know, it’s a bit of a mouthful, and only my mom really calls me that--’ 

'No she does not,’ said Illya promptly. ‘And not on birth certificate.'

'I --what?’'

'Napoleon Solo is name little boy gives himself when he tells himself stories to sleep. Facist dictator is not the name given to beloved American son.'

'My goodness, you _are_ charming, aren't you?’ said Napoleon, breaking out into an annoyed grin. ‘And what do they call you?'

'Illya Kuryakin.’ He nodded. ‘Is strong good _real_ name. Not like this Napoleon So Low, which is by the way bad pun--’ 

'Okay, okay!' Napoleon held up a hand in surrender. 'You win the names, Peril!'

'Illya. Not Peril.'

 _'Peril._ Not that this hasn't been an unmitigated delight but I assume you came in because you wanted something other than to review my mother's questionable choices after eleven hours of labour. Can I help you? As you can see, I am _very_ busy.'

'This.' Illya tapped Gaby's crumpled list twice. 'I have been made to retrieve these items. I do not require one because I bring flask and am prepared and not wasteful with money.' 

'Hard to believe your colleagues wanted to miss a _second_ of your company.' Napoleon pulled the slip towards him, pink tongue darting across the Cupid's bow as he read. Not that Illya noticed. Or cared. They were just lips. Pft. 'Right. And they want all this? Uh, from here?'

Illya shrugged. 'I agree! They _are_ very decadent. Is vulgar.' He flicked his gaze to Napoleon’s name badge, and back again. 

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at that before turning away, pressing two fingers in a steeple in front of his lips. 'Okay, okay. So that… that must be the coffee machine. You think?'

'I-- yes. It is obvious.' Illya frowned. 

'Right. Yes.' Napoleon approached it almost gingerly. Illya absolutely did not take the opportunity to enjoy his tight fitting trousers. He patted the top of the machine, a concerned look on his face. 'Do you know, Peril--'

'Illya!'

'- I do think this machine might be on the fritz.'

'Fritz? What is this fritz?'

'Broken. Kaput. Сломана. Fucked if you like.'

'I see.' Illya blushed hotly. Beautiful and could speak Russian. Oh, lord, God, help him. 'I could perhaps take a look? I am good with machinery and problem solving.'

'No! No, that’s fine. I think I recall seeing a charming little kettle in the back. If you will excuse me?' He gave a little bow, before retreating through a door behind the counter. 'Now, where would I be if I was a --' Illya heard through faintly, followed by soft curses that heated the tips of Illyas ears. 'Ah, there we go!'

Illya craned his neck to see if he could see the other man's progress but the door was not ajar enough, the sound of screaming steam soon followed. 

'Here you go, sir!' Napoleon said, leaving the kitchen ten minutes later with a tray of cups in hand. 'Six delicious beverages to trot and good to go!' He placed them down on the counter, placing his hands on hips and a pleased grin on his face. 

'I asked for a cafe au lait, a latte with a shot of hazelnut, a white chocolate mocha, a caramel frappuccino, a white tea and an espresso con panna.'

'Yes?'

'This.' Illya glanced down at the tray. 'This looks like six cups of black coffee.'

'Right on the money, Peril.' Napoleon smiled reaching for the nearby lids. 'Behold. Communism.'

'You are _very_ odd.'

'Would you believe that's not the first time I've heard that?' Napoleon placed an elbow on the surface, and rested his head on his palm. 'That will be - uh-- let's say $18.'

'But that is not the correct price?' Illya glanced up at the board with a furrowed brow.

'Hmm.' He smirked. 'Let's call it the Handsome Customer discount, shall we?'

'But is more expensive!'

'Oh! Is it? Oh, well, call it the Handsome Customer fine, then.' Napoleon looked Illya up and down, slowly. _'Absolutely_ fine.'

'Yes. Very odd.' Illya frowned as he handed over the cash, feeling bafflement wash over him and a blush rise high in his cheeks. Gathering up the coffees, he muttered his thanks and hightailed it out of the cafe without looking back, his head spun by beautiful baristas and their strange ways.

*

'It's okay if you messed up the order, Illya.' Gaby patted his arm in consolation. 'Mistakes happen.'

'I did not! I execute orders correctly but machine is трахал --'

'Uh huh,' said Gaby, mouth quirked in amusement. '

'No! I will prove it. Tomorrow I go back and get ridiculous drinks and you see.'

*

'Peril! Only two days on the job and I have a regular. I'm honoured.'

'I need this order but actually _this_ order and not this lazy black coffee business.'

'I'm glad to see yesterday wasn't a one off and you are always this delightful.' He tipped a glass of soda towards Illya with a wink and downed half of it, throat working as he gulped. Illya watched the lines of his neck in rapt fascination. 'Ah, right. Okay, where were we?' He held out a hand in a gimme motion, fingers delicately taking the list from Illya. The hairs along Illya’s arm raised at the slight touch, but Napoleon did not mark it. 'Great! No problem, coming right up!' He flashed a dazzling smile at Illya, who absolutely did not swoon, and disappeared into the back. 

As he waited, Illya discarded various topics to discuss to prolong his time in Napoleon's presence. Just because the man was an outlandish flirt, didn't actually mean he was interested in Illya. Plus there was Nico hiding somewhere on the scene, just waiting to come along and scoop Napoleon up in his no doubt huge ungrateful arms. 

'All done, Peril! Here we are.' He brandished a hand across the collection like a magician revealing a particular clever trick.

Illya peered at the identical cups with a raised brow. 'How do we know what is what?'

'Oh, yes! How thoughtless of me, hold on.' Napoleon pulled the closest cup towards him, flipped off the lid and raised it to his lips taking a sip. 'That's the milky coffee, let me get a pen--- what?'

'Did --- did you just drink--'

Napoleon tutted as he scribbled the drink's name across the cardboard. 'Please, Peril. That's just how you do things with proper barista style coffee. It's all the rage in Europe.'

'I'm _Russian_.'

'All the rage in Europe except for Russia, _clearly_. Right, there you go. That will be $19.45, please.'

'Wait. Where is the abomination?’ He gestured in irritation. ‘The frappuccino?'

'Frapp-- oh!' Napoleon rounded the counter, squeezing past Illya who held his breath at the proximity and warmth of the other man's body. A waft of woodsey jasmine cologne filled his nostrils and spun his senses.

Napoleon picked up a cup from an empty table and beamed at Illya whose heart had the audacity to miss a step in the melody in its wake.

'There you go.' He planted it on the counter in front of Illya. 'That's been there for about an hour. That should be plenty cold.'

Illya stared, his eyes rounded in horror. _'This_ is your frappuccino?'

'Yes, yes, I see what you mean.' Napoleon sighed, glancing around him. 'Hold on.' Napoleon moved past him again, his heat once more covering Illya's arm for a moment, and causing the butterflies in Illya's stomach to take flight. He pulled the discarded soda towards him and fished out three ice cubes and dropped them into the stagnant coffee, liquid sploshing over the sides. 'There. Cold. Just like the mother country.'

'You are serious?'

'What? Do you need the ice crushed? I think I saw a stray telephone directory book around here somewhere…'

'No! This is fine!' Illya didn't much like Ron anyway. He whistled on too much of a regularity, as if life were a joke and not the philosopher’s quadrillion kilometre trek to God as penance. He handed over the money with a severe nod.

This was getting dangerously close to crush territory. Illya would do well to keep away from the man.

*

'Coffee orders! I am taking coffee orders!'

'Illya get off the chair before you fall!' Gaby hissed, pulling at his arm. 'And no one wants anything from that lunatic!'

'You like _Nico'_ s! You said you had never tasted anything like it.'

 _'Nobody_ has! Because it defied logic and reason! I preferred the old Nico! New Nico left a half melted Hershey's bar at the bottom of my cup and called it a mocha.' She squinted. 'Are you sure you went to _Nico's_ and not that meth addicted gang of youths under the bridge.'

'Pah! You have no culture. This is all the rage in Europe.'

'There was a cigarette butt in Ron's!’

'Ron must have put that there. I told you. He has shifty eyes of serial killer.'

'Illya!' Ron exclaimed, a hurt look on his face. 'I'm standing right here!'

'You see, Gaby, you see how he establishes alibi?'

Gaby shook her head. 'I appreciate the offer but I think I'll stick to the much safer, much _saner_ vending machine.'

'Napoleon just has first days complications. Is very common and-'

'Oh! Napoleon?' Gaby's smile turned mischievous. 'I see.'

'I will treat everyone!' Illya shouted, turning away from her far too knowing eyes. 'Please give me orders,' said Illya. 'Even you, Ron. I will be very nice to you just this once. You're welcome.'

He looked everywhere except at Gaby's questioning gaze. This was merely a good deed, that was all. This morning, on Illya's walk to work, he had peered into _Nico's_ to see that it was barren of customers. He had spied Napoleon through the glass, polishing various strange, complicated looking tools with a determined expression upon his handsome face. Poor Napoleon. He clearly needed Illya to keep his business afloat. 

Gaby tilted her head, a slight smirk dancing over her lips. 'So, this…'

'Napoleon.' Illya waved a hand. 'Is stage name for coffee.'

'Right, yeah, this _Napoleon._ Made an impression, did he? While he was wringing day old tea bags into Petra's cup?'

'Don't be absurd. I am merely being benevolent to my fellow colleague.'

'Illya, since when you are benevolent? I've seen you close elevator doors on people. After ushering them _out_ of it.' 

'Pah! This is merely workplace banter. Is good for all and helps team flow, isn't that right, Ron?'

'I mean, I was on crutches at the time, Il--'

'Orders!' Illya shouted again. 'I don't want to get caught in the lunch time rush. Gaby, get pen and take down requests. I, personally, have brought flask as am forward thinking and don't pay for hot water when I have capacity for such at home. But you should all get drinks. Now.'

'Hmm, so I'm guessing on a scale of 1 to 10, this Stalin-

'Napoleon.'

'- is coming in at about a 9, huh? Gaby shook her head. 'In that case, I'm happy to be your wing girl on this occasion but if you hand over another concoction like yesterday, so help me, Illya…' 

'We need to support small business owners.' Illya sniffed. 

_'Sure_ . Well, do tell Mussolini I said hello.' She scribbled down a quick order and tucked it into his coat pocket with a pay. 'Here's your excuse, sorry I mean _order_.' 

'Thank you, and as I said. It is my treat.

Gaby gave him a non too gentle punch in the arm. 'Yes, I know and I might need that in writing for my future suit against you.' 

*

'Illya! My babooshka!' Napoleon greeted with a bright smile.

'I am not your _grandmother_. This is silly nonsensical song.'

'Shame, I won't break out the matching outfit then.'

Illya's brain temporarily went offline. 'Yes, well, right. Here!' He shoved Gaby's drink request forward almost shoving Napoleon in his haste.

'Okay, so that's a half-caf quad grande one pump white mocha, one pump peppermint nonfat light water americano misto with curls?' Napoleon grinned. 'Peril, this may just be my Sistine chapel of drinks.'

*

'Call the Board of Health, Illya- ohhhh!' Gaby filled the porcelain bowl once more in a series of heaves and gasps.

'Perhaps is not coffee. Perhaps you are just pregnant?'

Gaby turned with a glare.

'Or bug! Maybe! Here, I'll hold your hair.'

*

'Just the one today, Peril?'

'Ah, yes. My colleagues have decided that they need to cut back on the caffeine. It gives them, uh, insomnia,' Illya said, keeping his gaze to the ground. 'Anyway, I have whatever you recommend.'

'Ah. Not fun. I've had many sleepless nights with Nico's snoring. It plays havoc on the skin under my eyes.'

'Right,' answered Illya through gritted teeth. 'You must miss this noisy, inconsiderate man terribly.'

'Who? Nico? Oh, my God, _no,_ ' Napoleon spluttered. 'Although he did make a rather edifying toilet wine- uh.' He shot a glance at Illya. 'I mean that's the name of a villa. In Napa Valley.'

'He is… _significant_ to you?'

Napoleon rubbed at the back of his neck with a sheepish expression. 'I guess? Why do you ask? Wait, do you think that he and I…?' Napoleon gave a loud, uproarious laugh. 'I can assure you that _no_ , absolutely not.'

'Oh.' Illya managed to hold back a fist pump. 'Then how do you know each other?'

'We were bunkmates.' A beat. 'At camp. Sleepaway camp.'

'Okay. Okay. _So_.' Illya drummed out a mindless rhythm, staring resolutely over Napoleon's shoulder. 'You are unattached?' He looked away quickly, and tried to dispel the feeling that he was a blundering Prince Myshkin as a palpable disquiet fell over Napoleon. 

Napoleon was silent for a long moment, then slipped into his Nastasya Filippovna role easily once more. 'That I am, Peril. Sadly, it appears that I am destined to wander through life alone.' He pressed a hand over his heart. 'Always searching for what the poets preach and alas never quite finding it.’ 

'That's fantastic!' Illya said with a wide grin. 'I mean.' He schooled his features into a more saddened expression. 'Is fantastically sad.'

'Right,' said Napoleon . 'Well, thanks for that.' 

‘“ _How can one talk to a man and not be happy in loving him_!”’ quoted Illya in Russian, feeling the truth of it. 

‘I'm afraid I don’t speak Russian quite that fluently,’ said Napoleon mildly. He sighed, and then cast Illya a long, unguarded look. 'Will there be anything else, Peril?' 

The weight of expectation was palpable. 

'I--- I---' The words refused to trip from Illya’s tongue; he felt heat blossom on his cheeks. _Ask him. Ask him to dinner, you idiot._ 'Thank you for coffee. I have to get back to work now!'

Illya practically ran from the bistro, admonishments running around his mind. On the way back to the gallery, he tried to bestow the coffee to a homeless man, who after one sip tried to bestow it at Illya's head. 

_Tomorrow_ , he thought. _Tomorrow he would get it right._


	2. Chapter 2

Illya tore into his philly cheesesteak sandwich with furious intent, eyes fixed on the little shop opposite as he sat on one of the oversized steps leading into the gallery. _What an idiot! What a fool! Since when do I behave in such a cowardly fashion?_ But it was hard to concentrate and hold one's nerve when confronted with Napoleon's swagger and cocksure grin.

Such a _lovely_ grin. He exhaled deeply in memory.

'Feeling glum, Illya?’ called Gaby from behind him. 'I can hear your wistful sighs rumbling inside. She shrugged. ‘What's wrong?'

'Nothing! Nothing! Am absolutely fine.'

'Hmm, if you say so.' She seated herself next to him, pulling out her own lunch. 'Oh, hey, there's extra shifts coming up next week for that private Picasso collection. Are you signing up for any?'

'Pft. Picasso.' 

'Seriously? You don't even like _Picasso_?' 

'Is hack.'

'And you _aren't_ in a bad mood.' Gaby scoffed. 'He is one of the most beloved artists of the world, you Philistine.’

‘This why decadence annoys me. You ever see Picasso’s art as boy? Is good! He render shadows and the look in his eyes!’ Illya kissed his fingers. ‘Mwah! His art was good, very good. Then he have brain problem I think. They never checked but he definitely have problem. He can’t draw hands. Woman has three eyes! I think okay Illya there was _Guernica_ , that was about war, that is sad. But then he forget how to draw hands again! He draw parasite and it fucking line--’ he drew a squiggle in the air furiously. ‘He lazy, he forgets Spain, he tolerates and he draws parasite!’ He mimicked spitting on the ground. ‘Fuck you, Picasso.’ 

'So that's a no-go to the extra shifts, then?'

'No, no! I want them!'

'Great. I'll let Waverly know.' Gaby took a delicate bite out of her sandwich. 'And how are things going with Pol Pot?’

'One day you are going to run out of dictators.'

'Worryingly, I don't think so.’ She considered. ’I bet there’ll be, like, five more by the time you get this guy’s number.’ 

'Heh. And to answer your question: not good. Yesterday I have great opening and I fumble tackle. Then I ran from the place like little schoolgirl with bruised knee.' 

'Randomly sexist, but do go on.'

'I made spectacle of myself,’ he said, tearing off a piece of bread savagely and chewing it with conviction. 'He cannot possibly be interested.'

'Illya, you are like six foot five -- stop spraying me with crumbs-- of pure gorgeousness. He would be insane not to take you up on the offer. Just ask him out already and stop slowly poisoning everyone around you.'

'Is it not bad form to ask out people who are contractually obliged to wait on you?'

'Well, yes, but you say that he keeps flirting with you and it must be obvious if even _you_ are noticing it. And if he does say no, so what? You take a shot and respect the answer. It's as easy as that.'

'Okay, okay.' He huffed out a breath. 'Any advice?'

Gaby gave a wicked grin. 'Well, first of all, you need to _intrigue_ him. Show him how interesting and informed you are. Drop some facts into the conversation that will dazzle him. Try to establish an easy camaraderie between you both, and compliment him often. Oh, but also try to be mysterious. But most of all you need to master the art of small talk. You know what, get your notepad out and I'll dictate…'

*

'Very sunny today. Blue sky and few clouds.'

'Yes, I know,' answered Napoleon nonplused. 'One of the many features of this shop is that it has windows.'

'Yes! The windows!' Illya turned and gestured. 'You keep very clean. Very few bodily insect remains smeared across them. Well done!'

'...Thank you?'

'No problem!' Illya smiled and dipped his head in acknowledgment. 'You're very welcome.’

'So rebounding from _that_ -.' Napoleon slung a towel over his shoulder and rested his palms on the counter. 'What can I get you?'

'Ah, yes,' Illya removed the flask from his inside pocket, setting it down on the counter. 'May I have cup?'

'A cup?' Napoleon narrowed his eyes. 'Sure.' He removed one from the stack and pushed towards Illya.

Illya opened the flask and poured the contents into the waiting cup, allowing a second before raising it to his lips for a small sip. He let out a satisfied sigh and smiled at Napoleon who stared back in abject confusion. 'Perfect.'

'Peril. This may be one of the most passive aggressive displays I have ever seen.'

'Do not worry, Cowboy!' Illya retrieved his phone from his pocket and began to type. 'I will leave Google review. Had very nice coffee in _Nico's_.'

'Cowboy?'

Illya nodded firmly. 'Cowboy.'

'Why?'

'Well, you give me this ridiculous xenophobic nick name, so I return in kind. I give you one. There we are equal. Do not- ' Illya held up his hand as Napoleon's lips began to form a response, '-make communist joke.' 

'Right,’ said Napoleon with a confirmatory nod. ‘Great. And why Cowboy, may I ask?'

'Because you ride me hard.'

He grinned. 'I-- I'm beginning to come around to this name.'

'Each time I come in here, you make joke at my expense and tease. Well, now I have name because of this.' Illya paused. 'Also you walk funny.'

'Hmm.' Napoleon winked. 'I could walk funnier?'

Illya waved a hand. 'Is sufficient as is.'

'I'll try not to let the compliments go to my head.' He rolled his eyes. 'You know, I was wondering, Peril. What part of Russia are you from?'

'Is a secret.' Illya turned his head and squinted into the distance, trying to look as mysterious as possible. He chanced a look at Napoleon out of the corner of his eye. He certainly looked intrigued. Or confused. It was hard to tell at this angle.

'Hi, hello! I wondered if I could --' a female voice piped up behind Illya. 'Are you done? Could I possibly --' Illya frowned down at her as she hovered around him. 'No? Okay I'll just--' She settled next to him, almost brushing arms. 'Hi, there,' she said to Napoleon. 'Could I please have a strawberry smoothie and a chai tea?'

'Sure thing, ma'am.' Napoleon glanced at Illya expectantly, but did not press the issue when Illya made no effort to move aside for the new entrant.

Napoleon shot the woman a hasty smile and began gathering the items together to make smoothie. He made short work of cutting misshapen strawberry chunks and throwing them into the blender jar and then securely fastening the lid into place. Lord, even his hands were lovely.

'Aha!' Illya boomed, startling both the woman and Napoleon. 'Amusing little information about chai tea!' Illya beamed, seizing the chance to impress. 'Chai actually means--'

 _VROORRRR_!

Napoleon held his gaze, unblinking with his finger pressed down upon the switch of the blender.

'Right. You have been told that before.' Illya coughed into his hand. 'Oh, well did you know that etymology of bistro is very interesting. During Napoleonic Wars, the troops in Paris they would march into taverns and shout бы́стро - this means to be quick, yes? Fucking French, always taking time kissing and making croissants or whatever they do. And so the French adopt this word and it becomes new name for place such as this.' Illya straightened up. 'Is interesting?'

'Why, Peril, are you planning on _occupying_ me?'

'What.'

Napoleon smirked, leaning across the country and resting his chin upon a palm. 'Are you saying you want a quickie?'

Illya frowned. 'No. Is fine. I had hamburger earlier.'

'You know,’ he drawled. ‘You need to brush up on your idioms.’ 

'I thought it was interesting!' The woman said, looking back and forth between them.

'See! Despite terrible taste in drinks and inability to maintain personal space she knows what facts are fun to enjoy!'

'Ahh, _now_ I know you!' The woman looked up at him, recognition on her face. 'You work at The Thomas Lowry across the street, don't you?'

'Yes, I am the security guard there.' He did not mark Napoleon’s subtle lean forward with interest. 'Do you need to know way to the bathroom?'

'I-- No thanks, I'm alright, actually. I remembered you from last week when you escorted out that young man.' She gestured to her neck. ‘He wore that tie you insulted.’ 

'Hmm? Oh, yes. He come in with common street gang.'

'Actually, they were eighth graders. He was their teacher.'

'Terrible. Poor _dvornyazkha_.' Illya huffed. 'They start so young.’

'Uh, well! I'd best be popping off!' She nodded her thanks at Napoleon as she paid. _'Good luck_ ,' she mouthed to Illya as she took her tray and turned to exit.

He eyed her drinks warily. 'And to you.' 

'So, you are a security guard?' Napoleon asked once they were alone again. 'That must be interesting.' His bemused tolerance was now gone, and he regarded Illya with a hungry expression and a foxy smile which did not quite meet his eyes.

'Not really it is-- I mean _yes_! Very fascinating job. Lots of stories. So many!'

'I'll bet.' The foxy smile grew into a pleased grin. 'I'd love to hear them.'

'Yes! Hmm. Cowboy. The thing is -- If you don't mind.' Illya cleared his throat. Why was this _so_ hard. 'I would like to-- If I may--'

'Peril,' interrupted Napoleon smoothly 'You wouldn't happen to be free this evening, would you?'

*

'You know. I had something a little more upmarket in mind.' Napoleon said, looking around the cafe. 'I look at coffee all day long, you know.'

'Hmm,' muttered Illya. 'That explains it's temperature.'

'Pardon?'

'The choices! Very tempting.' He gestured at the menu. 'Have you seen?' 

'Oh, well, as you can imagine I am torn between the Gutbuster 3000 sub or the pizza with tiny hamburgers welded into its crust.’ 

'Do not be snob.' Illya was going to strangle Gaby for this recommendation. 'You must broaden your palate. Order your meal in French like pretentious gap year student if that will help.'

'Is that an honest-to-God bicycle glued to the wall?'

'Is quirky! You can come here and eat food while also looking at parking meter on ceiling.' Napoleon eyed above him cautiously. 'Is offbeat and hip.'

'It is certainly something,' murmoured Napoleon. 'So, anyway, working at the gallery. That must great,' he said, glancing back down at the menu, eyes darting over the choices. 'You must be very up to date on all the latest protocols. You know, like, intrusion systems, access control, video surveillance…' He looked up through lowered lids. 'Silent alarms?'

'Of course!' Illya beamed. 'I am excellent employee. I take security seriously.'

'Wow, and what does that entail. Be specific, I simply _adore_ detail.'

'It is barely needed feeble back ups. I am proficient just as I am. Much better than Ron. Ron could not guard postage stamp.'

 _'Ohh_. And what shifts does Ron usually work?'

Illya barely heard him, even though the cafe was hardly one known for romantic setting, the shade and lighting draped over Napoleon's frame like a lover. He was a Caravaggio come to life.

'I'm happy!' Illya said before he could stop himself. 'I mean, I'm-- I am-- very glad you asked me to dinner, Cowboy.' He ducked his head as a blush ran over his cheeks. 'I had wanted to do so -- but could not find the words.' He looked back up, and smiled warmly. 'Truly.'

Napoleon smiled tightly, and looked away. 'Well, yes. Me too.' He coughed slightly. 'Shall we order?'

They ate their meal in a nervous silence that slowly merged into a companionable one. Every now and then their eyes meeting, before soft smiles and lowered gazes would carry the moments by. 

'Do you miss Russia, Peril?' Napoleon asked, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin as he finished his last bite. 

'No,' said Illya honestly. 'I take the best parts of home with me. I don't need to be in Moscow to feel it.'

_' "I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself." '_

'Maya Angelou?'

Napoleon grinned. 'A man of hidden depths.'

'We have books in Russia, Cowboy.'

'Very, very long ones. In fact Dostoevsky got me through many a long stretch. I mean -- I like to read during...yoga. I'm _very_ flexible.'

Illya spluttered, coffee spraying across the table cloth. 'Uh, shall we get bill?'

*

The night air felt crisp on his face as they walked side by side along the river bank. Above, the moon guided them along their way, stars twinkling in its wake. He reached for Napoleon's hand, who after a moment's hesitation squeezed back. 

'Well, Peril, I've had a lovely evening and I --'

'Would you like to come to mine? For coffee?' At Napoleon's shocked almost pained expression, Illya continued. 'Don't worry! I'd make it. Also there will be no coffee, is euphemism for--'

'I got that!' Napoleon held up his other hand, as if to ward off a blow. 'I'd love to, God help me, Peril. I really would but--' He glanced out across the water, a strange distant look in his eyes. 'I think we should wait. I -- I wouldn't like to take advantage. To that extent.'

'Pft. You are silly man to think you could do so, but I do not mind this wait.' Illya raised a hand, fingertips to Napoleon's chilled cheek. 'You are worth waiting for.'

At that Napoleon gave a sad smile. 'I do wonder at that.

  
  


*

Illya hummed to himself, as he observed the crowd milling through the gallery. Tapping his foot to a beat only in his head, he smiled to himself as he thought on Napoleon. They had been on four more dates and each one had made his heart feel lighter, had made the world appear awash with colour and possibility. Even here, where colour was often garish, unhinged and overpriced.

Illya never would have thought that Napoleon would be the old fashioned sort, but his reticence was just another intriguing element to the man. And Illya _knew_ that he was attracted. He could tell by the heated glances whenever their skin would brush, how his breath would catch just a little in his throat when Illya leaned close to whisper in his ear, from the crinkle of his laughter lines when he gave a fond laugh at Illya's challenges, how he would so rarely want to talk about his life but instead pressed for details on Illya's. Napoleon seemed to want to know all about his childhood, his ambitions, his joys and his sorrows. And the man _loved_ to hear Illya talk about his work. It was refreshing to meet someone so entirely focused on another instead of themselves.

Illya was rushing past the crush stage and full heartedly approaching besotted. 

'Penny for your thoughts, Peril.'

'Cowboy!' Illya exclaimed, turning to find the other man at his side. 'What are you doing here?'

'I thought I'd surprise you with lunch.' Napoleon held up a brown paper bag with a soft smile. 'And it's nice to see where _you_ work for a change.'

Illya grinned back as he took the item from Napoleon. 'Did you make this?'

'No.'

'Then I'll eat.'

'Thanks?' 

'It is my break now, do you want to go out to the steps?'

Napoleon looked about, eyes twinkling. 'Shall we take a turn around the room before we head out?'

'I cannot be blamed for the poor quality, Cowboy. I do not make the art.'

'You are art enough, Peril.' Napoleon took his arm in a link. 'Come. Tell me about what you do.' 

As they made their way through the gallery, idly chatting, Illya tried to recall when he had felt like this. That fire within him that yearned for adventure was suddenly at peace when bathed in the ray of Napoleon's smiles. He felt like a boat, finally anchored in a still lake. 

'...Hmm, and how heavily guarded at night, did you say?'

'I don't think I did?'

'Didn't you? Do excuse me. I just want to make sure you are safe when you work late.'

Illya scoffed. 'There is no need. I would simply punch intruder in the throat. And we have standard Emtech system in place. Is boring. I won't bore you.'

'Emtech? Hmm, 2019 or older setup?’

Illya grinned, Napoleon was just so attentive. Clearly he was just as smitten. '2019. We have private collection due and they have made us do drills as expensive. Although is like protecting elementary school art room.' Illya sniffed. 'Picasso,' he sneered.

Napoleon blinked in surprise. 'You don't like Picasso.'

Illya took a large intake of breath. 'Well…'

  
  


*

  
  


'I did not know you had an interest in art, Cowboy.' Illya said. 'I will take you to a proper gallery one day. You will see art as it should be.’

‘Let me guess. In St. Petersburg?’ 

‘No, is shit. So many ikons; I don’t care for them. But Germany has great galleries.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Napoleon. ‘I’m particularly fond of Dresden. I had a great time there -- at the gallery.’ He smiled. ‘it’s beautiful. I appreciate beauty,' he went on, his gaze heated. 'It deserves to be admired.'

Illya's own gaze dropped to Napoleon's plush lips. Lips that he had yet to kiss. 'Yes. Yes, it does.'

'So, Illya, do you personally do the rounds or…' Napoleon gave a little gasp. 'A Pollock! How did I miss that,' he murmured. 'I mean, I don't recall mention of it in the brochure,' he said hurriedly, waving it away. Stepping away from Illya and breaking their link, he peered at the piece, rapt fascination on his face. 'Do you see, Peril, how in this piece he belies his typical machismo by revealing his supreme delicacy? They say this is when his work went to hell, that he let the drink take him over but _look_. You can see his heart on the canvas within the grandiose and free abstract swirls, that blunt, violent black. Like shattered wondrous ruins amongst lost cities. It's chaos and he is losing.' Napoleon shook his head with a start. 'What about you, Peril. What do you think?'

'Is shit.'

‘Ah,’ said Napoleon. ‘I see we are following up our nuanced discourse on Picasso’s blue period with Pollock’s shit period. Please, continue.’ 

‘You hear of long leash?’ 

‘Not _here,_ don’t be--’ 

‘Long leash,’ said Illya, glowering at the painting. ‘Was CIA plot. Socialist realism could not last, you should see Moscow now, all old statues with no meaning, it couldn’t last. But fucking CIA do not let ideas flowers then rot, they interfere. Like Ron when I close elevator door.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘So they say hey Pollock, you are shit. You throw paintbrush at wall and make mess. Have more dollars, Pollock. Then he make more mess, people go oh yes I see, this is like Weimar Republic but better because here he made mess and pattern means something. My mother read me story when I was a child about an emperor --’ he smirked at Napoleon. ‘Not you. He have clothes but he show cock to everyone and they are scared so they say oh yes, good, you look great. Your coffee does not taste like shit, that line is a parasite.’ He scowled. ‘I hate liars. I never lie.’

Napoleon turned to him, considering. ‘I feel that you lost your flow halfway through that rant… and also, ouch.’ 

‘Anyway,’ breathed Illya emphatically. ‘Is shit.’ 

‘I see,’ said Napoleon. He nodded a little. ‘Do you think -- and I may be reaching here -- do you think you perhaps view the world through your embittered and somewhat limited Russian exceptionalist worldview?’ 

‘Fuck you.’ Illya rolled his eyes. ‘You tell me this? Where have _you_ been?’’ 

‘Trust me, Peril, I get around.’ Napoleon laughed. ‘Why do you look surprised? Have you ever felt history resonate as it does when the sun sets at the ruins of Carthage on an autumn day? Have you ever wandered through the trees at Mount Iwaki? You think your eyes are blue, but what are they to the blue of the ice floes at Jokulsarlon, or the lake where Melissanthi died from pining for Pan’s love?’ He regarded Illya fondly. ‘So much beauty, and all you see is the -- how did you put it? The cock flapping in the breeze.’ 

‘You are saying,’ said Illya, ‘that the cock can be beautiful even though is cock.’ 

Napoleon winced. ‘Not with such little finesse, I hope.’ 

‘I hope is not little.’ 

Napoleon smirked, giving a slight nod. 'So, who is your poison, Peril? Who are these _real_ artists?' 

'You will say is cliche.'

'There is no cliche in ar-- wait, don’t tell me you’re one of the Vettriano numbskulls?’

'The easy listening of art?’ He grinned, ‘I’m offended.’ 

'Oh, thank God. I'd have taken my sandwich back and ran out of the alarmed fire exits. Incidentally where are--'

'Van Gogh.'

‘Oh,’ scoffed Napoleon, with a half smile. ‘Everyone does says that, yes.’ 

‘Yes,’ he agreed with a nod. ‘They do. But you know, Cowboy. I have been to so many galleries, so many cities, and I see the paintings and the statues and they do not move me. They are beautiful, but they are cold.’

‘Like back in the USSR?’

‘Hush,’ said Illya. ‘Listen to me. I was in London one time. I was alone, and I was sad and tired. I was disillusioned. London is like that. I feel тоска́ in my heart. Nothing interest me, I have no job, nothing. And thank God the gallery is free because otherwise I go to Hyde Park and get on shinebox. Then I see this painting. It’s not pretty, it’s not easy to look at. I know straight away is Van Gogh - I see his paintings all over Europe. 

But this one -- this lonely field, the birds flying away and they are dark, too, and the sky -- it is the chaos on his canvas, the brush strokes. I cry. I stand there in busy gallery surrounded by British midgets and I cry. I am ashamed, and then I think no, that is what he meant. Don’t you dare be ashamed, Illya. You give this man your attention and you thank him for waking you up. _That is what he felt._ He was lonely, too. His soul bared on canvas, and everybody tut, go that’s nice and then walk to other painting which is prettier. But the lonely people - they know. They stay. They cry.’ He roused himself, gazed about the room. ‘I see none of that here.’ 

An inscrutable look fell over Napoleon's face as he stared back, as if momentarily shell shocked. 'Illya,' whispered Napoleon. 'That's… my word.' 

‘Yes,’ he said. He lowered his gaze, and then looked Napoleon in the face. ‘This is why I said about sky in the windows that day in cafe. Your eyes remind me of that sky but I do not mind the sadness. I do not mind brown dirt splodge in your blue eyes. It reminds me of feeling that connection.’ 

'Don't work tomorrow!' Napoleon blurted. 'I mean-- I mean.' He coughed and gave a weak smile. 'How about you and I go to that charming little Italian in the village?'

'I would love to, Cowboy, but I have agreed overtime for arrival of ugly three-eyed paintings.'

'And as alluring as that is.' Napoleon stepped into Illya's space, staring up at him with an impish grin. 'I'm sure we can think of something more alluring.'

'I--- I suppose I--'

'Oh! This must be George,' Gaby cut through Illyas nervous stuttering. 'Of the marvellous medicine fame.' She smiled and reached out to shake Napoleon's hand who gave a mild grin in response as he stepped away from Illya. 'You mocha tastes like feet.'

'Ah. I see that charm is a prerequisite of working here.' Napoleon shot a glance at Illya. 'You must be Gaby? 

'I am. I've heard so much about you.' She gave Illya a sly wink. 'Nauseatingly so.'

'Gaby, do you not have idiots to guide? Hmm?'

'Oh, I can take a moment to make sure my Illya is doing okay, can't I?' Her eyes narrowed into flints as she looked back to Napoleon. 'And he better _remain_ okay.'

'You do not need to protect my virtue, Gaby,' whispered Illya, as Napoleon paled. 'I am a big boy.'

'More good news for me!' joked Napoleon weakly.

'Hmm,' she looked Napoleon up and down once more before bursting into a sunny smile. 'Well, it's lovely to meet you!'

'And you too, Gaby.' Napoleon gave a slight bow as she made her way away with a quiet goodbye to Illya. 'Sweet girl.'

'Sorry about that.'

'Don't be. I'm glad you have friends that look out for you.' He continued to watch her disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed. 'You deserve to have that.'.

'What about you, Cowboy? Whose work do you admire?’

‘Modigliani--’ 

‘Oh, no!’ cried Illya. ‘Oh, come on. Horse faces!’ 

‘Actually, if you had let me finish -- I wanted to talk about his lover, Jeanne. She was beautiful, you know. But shy -- her family hated him, of course. He was too Jewish, too much the tortured artist, too destitute. And his paintings are good, Illya. You just need to look closer. Jeanne loved him, worshipped him. She painted in her own style and there’s this one portrait she did, of Modigliani. He’s half shrouded in darkness, but he has the saddest, most unguarded expression. It’s a soft look only a lover could give.’ 

‘So she became great artist and told him no more horse faces?’ 

‘No,’ said Napoleon. ‘No. After he died young, as all the tortured artists do, she took her own life. Jumped to her death. Can you imagine that? Eight months pregnant, so young and talented and beautiful, and so ready to die?’ He sighed. ‘I never understood it, not until I fell in love. Not until I knew what it was to lose somebody.' He gave a bitter laugh. 'Well. After a fashion. If only Jeanne been saved. If only someone had said, look, it happens. You go on.’

‘That is sad,’ said Illya. 

‘Yeah,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘It is. But you know, it made me determined never to be like that -- never let someone else’s end mean mine. I won’t allow it.’ 

‘You can’t stop it,’ said Illya softly. ‘Love can’t be stopped.’ 

‘Well.’ He dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Anyway…’

'Come.' Illya linked arms again with Napoleon. 'Let's eat on the steps while the sunshine is so nice.'

'You'll think about tomorrow, though?'

'Yes, Cowboy. I will think on it.'


	3. Chapter 3

'Cowboy!' Illya called as he stepped into the cafe. 'доброе утро!'

'Peril?' Napoleon stepped through from the back room, coming up to the counter with a surprised look. 'You're early. And I _really_ have to start locking that door.'

'You are fine. Is weak and feeble neighbourhood. Very low on felonies. No balls.' 

'That's… an odd view of low crime statistics, but I'll take it.’ 

'Of course there is that terrible graffiti on the south side,' he mused.

'You-- you mean the Banksy?'

'Ah, yes. That criminal.'

‘That _genius_.’

‘Pah!’ spat Illya, with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Is trite symbols, with _Pulp Fiction_ men holding bananas and sell for 10 million dollars. Haha!’ he laughed harshly. ‘Capitalist joke, biting satire. Now give me 10 million dollars.’ 

Napoleon nodded slowly. 'Thanks for that. Now, what can I do you for? Coffee?'

IIlya laughed heartily.

'I'll take that as a no. Well, it's early,’ he looked at Illya pointedly, ‘so I'm having one.' To Illya's surprise, he moved sleepily to the coffee machine and switched it on, an electronic hum as it sprang into life. He stifled a yawn and ran a hand through his hair, for once free of product. Illya was delighted to see that it curled. 'You'll have to excuse me, Peril, I've been working through most of the night.'

'You do late night service now?'

'Hmm? Oh, no, no. I was -- ' Napoleon stared blankly into space, before giving a tired smile. 'Grinding coffee beans. I like to do it by hand.'

'Sounds hygienic.' Illya squinted. 'You have paint on your nose.'

'I do?' Napoleon patted at his face before sending a sheepish grin Illya's way. 'The apartment upstairs needs a bit of a sprucing up. I must have missed it in the shower.' 

There was a brief pause as the machine filled Napoleon's cup with thick, dark liquid and Illya tried to push the thoughts of a showering Napoleon away. 

'I did not realise that you were also living here,' Illya said once the machine was quiet. 'And you paint walls _black_? Is very depressing!'

'Uh, yes, there's a lovely little room upstairs.' Napoleon chewed his lip, looking like he regretted mentioning the subject. 'And it must have just dried a darker colour, _anyway_! I made you a cup after all. Sorry, still running on autopilot I'm afraid.'

Napoleon shoved the drink towards him and Illya was acutely aware of the warm brush of Napoleon’s fingers as he took the cup from him, of the way their eyes caught and held. Illya was pretty sure the smile on his face was as bright and dopey as they came.

'You are not morning person, then?' Illya asked, leaning forward with his elbow onto the counter and resting his chin on his palm, flirtatious grin in check. 'This is interesting information. For going forward.'

'Oh, God, I see that _you_ are.’

'I'm _very_ good at night, too.'

Napoleon gave a bark of laughter and joined Illya, pressing into his space across the worktop. 'Is that so?' His eyes flicked to Illya's mouth. 'I would need further evidence before I could believe such wild outlandish claims.' 

'Ah ha, that could be arranged. Tonight for example?

'Oh!' said Napoleon with palpable relief. 'You managed to change your shift?'

'Yes, Ron is very happy. Despite this, I am glad that I can spend the evening with you instead.'

'Good.' He ducked his head, finger trailing a whorl in the wood. 'I'm, uh, really looking forward to it, Illya.' He glanced up beneath lowered lids, a curiously dark expression on his face.

'I like that,' said Illya, wanting to chase it away. 'I like being in your mouth.' He met Napoleon's widening eyes and smiled.

'Peril! Sometimes I think this _Allo Allo_ routine of yours isn't completely unaware.' He pressed closer, booping Illya's nose with a playful flick. 'But I do so love a single _entendre_ now and then.' 

Illya gave a cheeky wink. 'I must go soon. We have very big day at work. We have eyesores of Picasso to safely off load and organise.' Illya rolled his eyes. 'Ron is arranging but he will have trouble. You see he has issue with --'

'Yeah, I'm pretty busy myself actually, Peril,' snapped Napoleon, irritably. 'So I probably should get back to it myself.' 

'I-- I am sorry. I did not mean to hold you up.' Illya bit at his lip, feeling slightly stung and annoyed himself. He straightened up, taking a step back and fingers tightening on the cup in his grip. 'No matter, I can go.'

'No, no! I'm sorry, please. I'm just tired and crabby.' He held up his hands placatingly as he moved from behind the counter and stood beside Illya. 'Forgive me?'

Illya sighed and gave a deliberate put upon look. 'I guess I can do this. If this stops your pouting,' he said, his own slight anger quelled at Napoleon's mild manner. He took a sip of the coffee absent-mindedly. Momentary horror and regret was quickly chased away by the dark, strong roast that filled his senses. The tangy bitterness was followed on its heels by a touch of caramel sweetness, whose remnants Illya's tongue chased as he swallowed. He pulled back, staring at the cup with pleased surprise. 

An itch, so small and deep seemed to take up residence in his mind. Like a tiny fray of cotton, standing separate from his brothers it called to him. He sought it out, reaching to pull at the thread. 'Cowboy, this coffee is rather-- _oof_!'

A puff of air rushed out of Illya in his shock at the sudden press of Napoleon against his body. Warm, slightly dry lips touched his, and Napoleon's palm crept up, gentle at the nape of his neck. Illya felt as if he was carried away on a wave. Pulling Napelon tight, Illya drew him even nearer with an arm about his waist, hand bunching the material of Napoleon's shirt, as Napoleon's arms encircled around his shoulders. The soft caress of Napoleon's tongue against his lips set Illya alight and he sighed softly as he opened for him, deepening the kiss in a tender tangle of tongues. And then it was all hard, urgent breathing and the struggle to get closer, and closer still.

Clever fingers teased through Illya's hair, ruffling it as they pulled and curled strands around them in their own embrace. And then Illya didn't think much of anything at all, as he felt the hard length of the man pressing against his thigh, rubbing in sweet friction.

 _'Peril_ ,' Napoleon moaned softly, slowly pulling away, pressing his face into the crook of Illya's neck. 'You need to get to work. Remember?' His breath was a warm, hot caress along his skin. 

'Da,' gasped Illya. 'You're right.' He pressed forward again, to capture Napoleon's lips but he was stilled by a finger.

'Then tonight.' He looked up at Illya, pupils blown and dark with promise. 

Illya pressed a kiss to the digit still pressed against his lips. 'Okay, Cowboy. I look forward to it.'

As he left, surprisingly drinkable coffee in hand, the thread sprang up again. Something about Napoleon's face. Something dark and sad in his eyes. Had he imagined it?

Taking a sip of the coffee, he smoothed the thread away and out of his mind. It was probably nothing and after all they had the whole evening together to look forward to.

*

'Are you ready to order, sir?' the waiter asked again, pen in hand and expectant.

'No.' Illya waved a hand. 'My date is yet to arrive. I will have more water, please.' He nodded as the waiter left, and checked his watch again.

Napoleon was nearly thirty-three minutes late and wasn't answering Illya's texts and calls. A knot of worry was starting to form in Illya's stomach. What if he had tripped and fell? Or had choked to death on one of his own concoctions. Or had wandered into traffic and was currently smooshed over someone's windscreen like his very own Pollack.

He drummed out a tuneless beat on the table, leg also bouncing in the disjointed rhythm. Perhaps he should go to _Nico's_ and see if Napoleon was twisted and bent at the bottom of the stairs, fingers outstretched to the phone just out of…

Illya jumped as the cell sprang into life, vibrating across the table to the annoyed glances of the other patrons. He shot them a scowl as he scooped it up and answered in a rush. 'Napoleon? Thank God! Are you alright?l

'Peril,' said Napoleon, voice sounding hoarse. 'I'm so, so sorry, I'm afraid I'm going to have to--' A cough. '-- reschedule our date, I'm afraid. I'm feeling just awful. I've came down with a blasted cold.'

Disappointment and concern crashed through Illya at the wretched sound of Napoleon's voice. 'I am so sorry to hear that, Cowboy. Is there anything I can do?'

'No, no! You should just go ahead and order--' A hacking choke sounded down the line. '-- go ahead and order. Make the most of the evening.'

'It will not be same without you, perhaps I should come by and--'

 _'No_! I mean--' Napoleon gave a shaky laugh. 'That's very kind of you but I think I'm just going to climb into bed and sleep it off.'

A high pitched squealing in the background caused Illya to flinch and pull the cell away from his ear. 'What is that bleeping sound?' 

'What? Oh. It's my smoke alarm! It needs new batteries. I'll just ah-- whack it with a broom.' The piercing sound thankfully cut out. 'There we go.'

'Well.' Illya worried at his lip. 'If you are sure, Cowboy.' 

'Completely, and-- I just want to say I've had a wonderful time this last week. Truly. I want you to know that.' 

'As have I. Are you sure you are okay?'

'Yes, yes -- I'm, oh, shit-- uh, sorry, dropped my cough syrup!' A whisper now. 'Anyway. I'd best head to bed.' Softly. 'Goodbye, Illya.'

'Goodbye, Na--' The line was already dead.

Illya looked at his cell, brow furrowed in regard. Poor Napoleon. All sickly and trapped in a fire hazard of a building. Perhaps Illya could make his night go a little better.

'Excuse me! Do you do chicken soup?' he said, catching the passing waiter's eye. 'And if yes can I get it to go?

*

Illya stepped up onto the curb, surprised to see a small light in _Nico's_ window, and a shadowy figure silhouetted in the glow. He peered closer, cupping a hand by his face as he looked through the glass. Illya could just about make out a dark clad figure moving around in the dark. As Illya watched, the man's recognisable face was revealed as he moved into the beam of the low lit lamp. Satisfied that nothing untoward was afoot, Illya stepped back and made his way through the door, bell jangling as he did so.

At the shrill, Napoleon span round, face emblazoned in shock. 'Illya!' He took a shaky step back, mouth agape and breathing heavily. He was dressed from head to toe in black and in his gloved hands he held a tubed piece of paper in front of him almost reverently. 'This-- this isn't what it looks like!'

'You look very dashing.' Illya said, setting the soup down on a near table. 'Is very slimming!'

'I--'

'What is this?' Illya covered the distance, smiling kindly as he took the tube from Napoleon, the latter giving out a pained gasp as he did so. Unfurling it, Illya gave a small chuckle. 'Cowboy, why you buy such cheap imitation?' said Illya fondly, as he looked at the print. It was one of the Picassos, that he had seen earlier today being unloaded. 'And such ugly painting. Looks like demented child armed with broken brush attack page. How can anyone tell this is musketeer? Is horrendous!'

'I-- I perhaps I should take that back--'

'Here, I will help decide where you place it.' 

'No, seriously, Peril, I--' Napoleon made as if to grab at the print but Illya was too quick, moving past him. 

'How about here!' He called over his shoulder. 'Right above the counter and then all customers will see through the window!'

'Oh, _God_.'

'Do you have sticky tac and I will put up now and -- oh!' The paper slipped and Illya clasped it just before it hit the ground. With his knee he knocked it from the bottom and back up into a better grip.

 _'Sweet mother of God!_ '

'Relax, Cowboy, they have hundreds of these in the gift shop. I will buy you many to adorn your miserable black walls.'

'Uh, yeah sure. It's just I-- I _really_ like it!'

'Really?' Illya cast a critical eye over the piece. 'Why?'

'Um, it reminds me of you!'

Illya frowned, looking back and forth between the picture and Napoleon. 'But my eyes are on correct parts of face.'

'I meant in spirit!'

Slightly bemused, Illya laughed. 'If you say so. I would prefer you compare me to Repin, Kramskoi, De Lempicka or even an _Etch a Sketch_ than _this_ but that's okay. I'll take it as the compliment that was intended.' Illya frowned. 'Is smudged. I'll get.' He licked his thumb liberally.

'No!' 

Illya jumped at the volume and the panicked shock in Napoleon's face. 'Cowboy, I'm sorry. I got distracted. You are not well.' He placed the picture face down on the counter. Napoleon gave a small whimper. 'I brought soup!'

'Thank you.' He swallowed tightly. 'That's lovely. But it's very late and -- ' 

'Should you be up?' Illya interjected. 'You are very pale. And sweating. 'Perhaps I should take you to bed.' He held up a hand. 'I mean-- for sleeping!'

'Yes! Actually. I mean no. You know what, I think I might take this lovely soup, very kind of you, Peril, and take that--' He gestured to the portrait, '-- and go straight up to bed. Alone.'

Illya tilted his head, looking at Napoleon again, properly now, setting aside his concern and attraction. A bead of sweat was making its way down Napoleon's forehead. A small barely noticeable tick in his cheek, hands with a faint tremble and eyes that were darting repeatedly between Illya and the print 

'Cowboy,' he said slowly. 'What is going on?' He reached out fingers touching the paper, paper that he now realised was not the cheap, silky feel of the gift shop copies. But rough, and textured. Gingerly, he turned the page over, garish colours coming into view. He moved a finger towards the image.

'Don't,' Napoleon pleaded. 'Don't do that.'

'Why,' he asked flatly, eyes still on the picture. A horrible knot beginning to entangle in his gut. 'Why not, Cowboy.' 

'Because…' Napoleon sighed heavily. 'Because it's real. 

'I don't understand.'

'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'Please.'

Illya met Napoleon's eyes, dismay at the rising panic in the other man's eyes. Dismay and creeping suspicion. 'This isn't cheap copy is it?'

'I--' Napoleon cursed quietly under his breath. 'I stole it. I stole it from the gallery. It's what I do, Peril.'

'It's what you do.' IIlya repeated, the calm in his voice belied the confusion. The growing humiliation. He took a deep breath. 'Who are you?'

'Your barista?' he said weakly with a waxy grin. 'I'm -- I'm still me. I'm just also-- I'm also this. '

IIlya ignored this. 'Why are you here? Really.' 

'For that. For the painting.' Napoleon's voice was quiet, almost brittle in the still of the cafe. He took a deep wounded breath. 'Nico was my cellmate. And he talked all the time. None stop. But then one day he mentioned that his damn coffee shop was across from the Thomas Lowry. Suddenly, I started listening.'

Illya ran a shaky hand through his hair. 'You decided to -- what is it they say? Case the joint.'

Napoleon's lips quirked in grim amusement. 'Yes. It was the perfect location, I could keep an eye on the coming and goings, have an excuse to look up the surrounding areas, close enough to become intimate with--'

'Me?' Horror gripped him, closing his throat.

'No! Peril. I promise. Not… Not at first anyway. You weren't part of any of this. You came to me remember?'

'It's a coffee shop! I came for the coffee!'

'I tried to keep everyone away so I could concentrate on the job. The real job. I tried to keep _you_ away! But you just kept coming back. My God, man, you watched me stir a hot chocolate with biro!'

'I thought you were quirky. Like the girl with the bangs and the glasses and the typecasting,' said Illya sadly. 'I found you endearing.' His gaze narrowed. 'But you lie.' 

'Yes. I lie.' Napoleon closed his eyes tightly. 'But then -- I didn't mean to let my guard down but somehow -- You have no reason to believe me, Illya, but I liked you. _Like_ you. A lot.'

Illya crossed his arms. 'You mean you found out that I could be useful to you.'

'Yes, yes, I did. But you made me miserable!'

'Oh, I'm _sorry_! How terrible of me!'

'No, I didn't mean--' Napoleon grabbed at his hair, letting loose a frustrated huff. 'I love this life, Peril, absolutely love it. But the more I got to know you, I hated it. I didn't want to do this to you.'

'And yet you did?'

'I changed my mind. I promise. And I tried to distance you from all of this! If you weren't at the museum, if you were at the restaurant in full view of numerous witnesses and CCTV, then no one could accuse you of being invo--'

'It doesn't change that you used me!' Anger started to build now, burning away his shock, leaving only the twisted bare-boned truth behind. 'I was just another pawn to you!'

'I have made sure nothing can lead back to you, hell it won't even lead back to _me_. I promise you. I'm very good at what I do.'

'Your prison stay begs to differ!'

'That had nothing to do with me and eve-- Look, never mind. I just need you to know that I made sure your job is fine. You might even get a raise. Seriously, a monkey could walk out with a Ming vase there.' 

'I don't care about job!' roared Illya. 'I cared about you! You _used_ me, Napoleon.' He repeated, hands shaking at his sides, he tucked them under his armpits to quell the tremor. 'You understand this?'

Napoleon hung his head, shoulders slumping. 'I know! _I know._ And I thought I could do it. Get what I needed and throw you aside. Have some fun at the same time. I thought maybe I was built that way but… I couldn't. I can't.' Lower now, determined. 'I'm _not_.' After a long, intolerable silence broken only by the sound of Illya's own ragged breathing, Napoleon said, 'I think -- I think I could care for you a great deal. More so than anyone before. I think I already do.'

'More than Modigliani to your Jeanne Hébuterne?' Illya scoffed. 'More lies to fool me?'

'No.' Napoleon rubbed at his face, tiredly. 'She was very real. And I thought what we had was real. Then she sold me out for a bigger score.' He peeked up at Illya with a weary smile. 'And that's how I came to meet our darling Nico.' He swallowed thickly and moved closer to Illya, just stopping at arm length, a wary distance. 'I had a grand plan. There was the job, the acquisition, the getaway. I accounted for everything. Except you.'

'What is this? A love confession to stop me calling the police?' Illya sucked in a breath, dismayed by how it trembled. 'The lies you tell.'

'No!' Napoleon's head jerked up. 'I don't _know_ what this is!' He gave a bitter laugh. 'God, this is such a mess.'

Illya frowned, clenching his trembling fingers into fists. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair how the shadows clung to Napoleon, more beautiful than any artist's touch. It wasn't fair how much he wanted him when he had been betrayed so. And yet he did.

'Maybe,' he said delicately. 'Maybe don't go. We will put ugly painting back and you stay. You make terrible coffee and we forget about this.'

If anything this made Napoleon look even more pained. 'Peril. _I can't_. For one thing, uh, Nico isn't exactly aware that I'm here.'

'You break and enter, too?!'

'What if _you_ come with _me_.' Napoleon closed the distance and grabbed Illya by his arms, pulling him close. 'I know you aren't happy here. I've got a plane ready to take us to Costa Rica, and from there the whole world. Hell, let’s stop off and see Belize.’ 

‘Who is this Billy?’ he said with a glower. 

‘Stop it, don’t be coy. You _want_ this. I see it in you -- that lust for the thrill of stepping off a plane and the place is different, the _air_ is different - and adventure awaits. And don’t you want to do that? And share that with someone?’ He nodded a little. ‘With _me_?’ 

For a moment, Illya could imagine it. Sleek, proud, and the mysterious handsome stranger in town, his sunglasses glinting knowingly in some exotic new location, flashing fistfuls of dollars and having everyone guess if he were a millionaire, a Silicon Valley brat, a sexy and dashing _criminal_ \-- 

And through it all, Napoleon at his side.

But.

'No. It will not work, Cowboy,’ Illya said, taking Napoleon's hands in his and removing them from their grasp. His skin mourned the loss as he let them fall. 'It cannot work.' 

'Right, okay.' Napoleon murmured, eyes downcast. 'Yeah. I understand, Peril. I can't ask that of you.' He smiled grimly. 'It would have been fun, though, wouldn't it. An adventure.'

'Perhaps.'

'Dare I ask for a ten minute head start. Or would that be too much?'

'It would.' Illya cleared his throat. 'But I will do this.'

'Illya,' Napoleon whispered as he moved into Illya's shadow once more. _'Please_.' With a tender hand cupping Illya's face, Napoleon kissed him, nipping softly at the lower bud before trailing kisses along his collarbone and back again to his lips. 'I guess this is goodbye,' he breathed shakily. The tip of his nose brushed Illya's gently before he pulled back and looked up into Illya's eyes . Awaiting his fate.

'Yes, Cowboy.' With a bitten off sigh of discontent, Illya broke the embrace, stepping away. A long moment passed as they stared at each other, silently acknowledging the darkness of the room that had become tense, watching. Waiting.

Illya gave a curt, final nod, and left the stolen artwork and a crest-fallen Napoleon behind.

*

  
  


Illya's heart thumped, knocking against his ribs as he slowed on his approach to the gallery. He was so nervous that he couldn't catch his breath and the last thing he wanted was to enter gasping hard, red faced and drawing suspicious glances. Illya stopped ten yards from the front of the steps and made himself take a deep shivery breath.

He had barely slept a wink the night before. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw Napoleon's face in his mind. The raw devastation and regret that had shone in his gaze. It was _real_ , Illya was certain of that if nothing else. Even now, Illya's traitorous, moronic heart ached to reach out and soothe the pain away.

 _Fool_ , he thought, finally advancing the steps. _You are an easily led fool._

Numbly, he began the ascent, eye searching for waiting police and crime tape but to no avail.

Puzzled, he made his way into the gallery and the quiet opening mill of the few patrons and his colleagues. Where were the sirens? The gasps? Gaby rushing to him in horror, her trusting beautiful eyes wide with the terror of the consequences of loss. 

His heart pounding in his chest, he made his way to the accursed room where his career was about to end. 

There, at the end of the hallway, was the same Picasso that IIlya had seen just the night before. Slowly, he made his way to it, brow knitted in confusion. How? Had he brought it back? Had he changed his mind?

'See?' laughed Gaby, coming up behind him and startling. 'You're spellbound!'

'What? I--' Illya turned. 'What.' He repeated.

 _The paint on the bridge of Napoleon's nose_.

Of course. Napoleon had many talents. Why not a convincing forgery as well.

'I don't care what you say, Illya, I think his cubism period is beautiful. Look at the emphasis and juxtaposition. The soul, the poetry and erotica. It's like you already know the feel of the lines under your hands.' She linked her arm with his, leaning her diminutive head against his bicep. 'The mind behind it. Can you imagine?'

'All too well,' whispered Illya. 

'Hey, what's up?' Gaby said, looking up at him in concern. 'You seem-- off somehow.'

'I am fine, Gaby, I did not sleep well is all.' Illya snapped his gaze back to the painting, aware in his peripheral vision of Gaby’s searching look.

'Is it Elizabeth II?'

'Queen Elizabeth is not dictator.'

'Tell that to the British taxpayers,' she snorted. 'Did you two have a falling out?'

‘ _Da nyet, navernoe_ ,’ he said bleakly. ‘I maybe regret this for some time.’ He huffed.

‘So… you’re aware that you will regret this,’ she said, twisting towards him, ‘and yet… here you are.’ 

‘Here I am,’ he said with a shrug. 

‘Why the hell would you stay here looking like you belong in an Ibsen play when you could fix this _right now_?’ 

‘Some things can’t be fixed,’ said Illya. 

‘Like Picasso’s ability to draw hands?’ 

‘Like Picasso’s ability to draw hands,’ he repeated with a nod. 

‘Illya,’ she said. ‘Do you really think he ever lost that ability?’

‘He must have because why keep drawing big stupid blocks instead?’ 

She patted his arm. ‘Maybe, just _maybe_ , he was a stubborn man by the end and he refused to go back.’ 

‘He should have gone back, idiot.’ 

‘Yes,’ she said. She gave him a winning smile, the charming and cheeky smile he loved in her. ‘He should have.’ 

'Gaby, it is not as you say. Is not hand situation. I need to tell you--'

'Looks like someone's here to apologise!' said Gaby with a grin, indicating over his shoulder. 'But no flowers. Mark him down for that, Illya.' Gaby pushed up onto tiptoes and gave his cheek a pat. 'Remember what I said. Take a chance.' 

He took a deep sobering breath in before turning, and then let it all go in a powerful shudder at seeing the other man directly behind him, his arrogant proud head bent in supplication. Illya's heart jolted in hope, swiftly followed by anger and biting shame at his own weakness. He kept his face passive as Napoleon approached cautiously.

'What was it Picasso say? "Good artists copy, great artists steal”' 

'A bit on the nose, don't you think, Peril?'

Illya laughed bitterly. 'You switched them.'

'Yes,' said Napoleon softly. 'Twice actually.' He tipped his chin at the direction of the Picasso. _'That's_ the original.' He frowned. 'No offense, but the security here is godawful.'

'You expect me to believe you.'

'Well, yes? You complain about Ron all the time…'

'About the painting!'

'Oh! Then no. Not at all. But it's the truth all the same.'

Illya shook his head, and turned away, needing solace from Napoleon's gaze. 'And you think this makes everything okay? It does not.' He sensed, rather than saw, Napoleon’s nod of acknowledgment.

'I know. I don't expect your forgiveness. I just-- I just wanted to try and make it alright in some way.' 

Illya sniggered derisively. 'Right. So you say.'

'Gustave Courbet,' said Napoleon suddenly.

'What?'

'Not Repin. Not Kramskoi. Not even De Lempicka. If I had to compare you to a piece of art it would be a Courbet painting. I mean,’ said Napoleon briskly, ‘we have his exquisite use of chiaroscuro and the bleak _realisme_ of his paintings, but I mean the angry beauty behind his work. You know, he liked to twist idioms. He said, “ _I offend, therefore I am_ .”’ He chuckled. ‘How needlessly defiant. How angry and funny and -- how _you_.’ 

‘So-- you think I am prick?’ 

‘I am saying you have his fire, and his unwillingness to compromise. And I am also saying--’ he took a shaky breath. ‘I am also saying that his _Wounded Man_ is a painting which takes my breath away. Because it’s so goddamn beautiful, Illya. It’s erotic even down to the blood, and the way -- the way the light falls on the man’s cheekbones.’ He ghosted his hand over Illya’s face. Illya swallowed over the lump in his throat, and struggled to hold his composure in the wake of Napoleon's sad smile. 'I wish we had met under different circumstances.' Napoleon reached for Illya's hand, clasping it gently. 'I think we could have had something, I really do.' He waited a moment, head tilted and face full of expectation. At Illya's lack of response, a light in his eyes dimmed slowly. 'Well, Peril. I guess that's that.' Tugging Illya's hand to his mouth, he kissed the knuckles gently. With a slight bow, he turned on his heel and walked away. 

As with a will of its own, Illya's hand remained in the air, the warmth of Napoleon's lips still haunting his skin. His fingers flexed towards the retreating figure. To push away? To stop him and give Illya the brief respite to think? To pull back the thief towards him. He couldn't tell.

No. That was a lie. He knew. 

Illya's hand dropped back down to his side, and Napoleon exited the gallery.

*

Napoleon sat in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, not yet starting the engine. He gripped the steering wheel, watching as his knuckles turned white from the pressure. Good Lord, had he really just done that. Turned his back on millions?

Yes. But it was nothing compared to turning his back on Illya. Even if the futile action had made Illya hate him just a little less. It was worth it.

What a damned fool he’d been.

He glanced in his rearview at the shabby little coffee shop. _That_ , he would be glad to see the back of. His gaze then strayed to the gallery across the street.

_Goodbye, Illya._

Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths, centering himself. He could do this. He could leave. In the end it was the only thing he could do. And maybe when he thought back on this, it would hurt a little less to know that he tried to right the wrong he had caused. Maybe one day he could think on Illya, and not feel the raw gnawing clawing in his gut and the heaviness in his heart. 

Maybe.

'Cowboy!' The car door swung open and Illya flung himself into the passenger seat, startling Napoleon so hard, he nearly dashed his head upon the drivers side window. 'Drive!'

'Illya! What the hell! Is that the Picasso?'

'Yes, now put damn foot on gas pedal!' Illya spat, throwing, sweet Jesus, _throwing_ the priceless acquisition into the back seat. 'We need to go and get your plane!'

'Did you just walk out with that under your arm in _broad daylight_?'

'Security is very terrible as you say,' said Illya, shooting a smirk at Napoleon. 'And unfortunately I have just resigned my post so is worse now.'

'Illya, you can't mean this,' Napoleon exhaled, blinking rapidly. 'Surely.' 

Illya smiled softly, as alarms began to blare out behind them. 'When are you finally going to listen to order, Cowboy?' He reached out and closed his fingers over Napoleon's on the wheel, the flush of skin warm and firm against his. 'Let's go!'

'Well as they say, Peril,' Napoleon laughed with a brilliant smile, as the engine revved into life, ‘one neighborhood at a time!’ 

‘You talk nonsense! Do it some more.’ 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you would like to come chat to us about art, coffee and handsome large men in tiny suits, you can find us at wicked-felina and MargoBlack on Tumblr!


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